Thus persuaded, the “Princess” in her
turn denuded herself of her wealth of wig, and Madame
Depine watched with unsmiling satisfaction the stretchings
of tape across the ungainly cranium.

“C’est bien,” she said.
“I return with your fifty francs on the instant.”

And having seen her “Princess” safely
ensconced in the attic, she rifled the stocking, and
returned to the coiffeur.

When she emerged from the shop, the vindictive endurance
had vanished from her face, and in its place reigned
an angelic exaltation.

XII

Eleven days later Madame Valiere and Madame Depine
set out on the great expedition to the hairdresser’s
to try on the Wig. The “Princess’s”
excitement was no less tense than the fortunate winner’s.
Neither had slept a wink the night before, but the
November morning was keen and bright, and supplied
an excellent tonic. They conversed with animation
on the English in Egypt, and Madame Depine recalled
the gallant death of her son, the chasseur.

The coiffeur saluted them amiably. Yes,
mesdames, it was a beautiful morning. The wig
was quite ready. Behold it there—­on
its block.

Madame Valiere’s eyes turned thither, then grew
clouded, and returned to Madame Depine’s head
and thence back to the Grey Wig.

“It is not this one?” she said dubiously.

“Mais, oui.” Madame Depine
was nodding, a great smile transfiguring the emaciated
orb of her face. The artist’s eyes twinkled.

“But this will not fit you,” Madame Valiere
gasped.

“It is a little error, I know,” replied
Madame Depine.

“But it is a great error,” cried Madame
Valiere, aghast. And her angry gaze transfixed
the coiffeur.

“It is not his fault—­I ought not
to have let him measure you.”

“Ha! Did I not tell you so?” Triumph
softened her anger. “He has mixed up the
two measurements!”